Chapter 4: The Nightmare
A figure walked out of the dense darkness and into the pale glow of moonlight, revealing his presence.
He wore a black cloak, its fabric blending almost unnaturally with the night. A strange dark mask covered his face—from the bridge of his nose down to his neck. His long black hair fell to one side, partially concealing his left eye, giving him an uneven, shadowed appearance.
At his right waist hung a sword.
It did not gleam under the moonlight.
Instead, it absorbed it—like a shadow with form. Its sharp edges hinted at rust, yet its structure could easily deceive an untrained eye. It was forged of gold, but its upper thick portion was darkened, fractured with visible cracks. The handle was tightly wrapped in worn white cloth, suggesting long use.
As he lifted his gaze forward, dim candlelights appeared in the distance.
They resembled stars scattered across the night sky—but unnaturally clustered into a confined space.
Without hesitation, he began walking toward them.
As he approached, a massive gate came into view.
It was constructed from long, thick spears, each one towering like a giant. Their sharpened silver tips reflected the moonlight faintly, giving the gate a cold, intimidating presence.
At the top hung a large, cracked wooden board.
Strange symbols were carved into it.
The masked man slowed slightly… and read.
To any other, the language would have been incomprehensible—but to him, it was clear.
He spoke under his breath, his voice low and steady:
"— TOWN OF HERITH —
— ONLY LORD HERITH BELIEVERS ARE GRANTED ENTRY —"
His expression did not change.
No surprise. No hesitation.
He simply lowered his gaze and began examining the surroundings.
He walked along the length of the gate.
At its far right end, he found a small wooden booth—barely large enough to fit a single person. It was tightly shut.
He stepped closer and tried the door.
Locked.
He pushed harder.
Nothing.
He tried again, applying more force—his posture stiffening slightly with effort.
Still, it did not budge.
After a moment, he exhaled quietly, stepping back.
With no time to waste, he scanned the area once more—but found nothing of use.
Finally, he returned to the front of the gate.
Slowly, he leaned forward… and peered through the narrow gaps between the spears.
Inside…
People.
But something was wrong.
They all wore identical long black robes, making it impossible to distinguish gender. Strange symbols were inscribed on their garments, though too faint to be clearly seen from a distance.
Their heads were covered with hoods.
Their hands were empty.
They moved in patterns.
Groups of two stood on each street.
One group entered a house.
Another group exited.
Then again—entry and exit, repeated in perfect rhythm.
The same pattern… across every visible house.
It wasn't normal.
It wasn't human.
Then—
Everything stopped.
At once.
All figures froze.
Slowly… they turned.
Toward the gate.
Toward him.
Though their eyes were hidden, their lips were visible.
And then—
They began moving.
Their lips formed words…
But no sound came.
The masked man narrowed his visible eye slightly, observing.
Then—
He heard it.
A voice.
But not from them.
From the wooden booth beside the gate.
The voice echoed unnaturally… layered, as if spoken by many at once.
It spoke in the same strange language.
Yet again—he understood it.
"Who are u"
For the first time, the masked man paused.
A faint tension passed through him.
But only for a moment.
He straightened slightly, regaining composure, and turned his head toward the booth.
His voice was calm, controlled:
"I am traveler, my name is Laryoal black , I came from east."
He stood still… waiting.
The voice returned.
Now louder.
Now heavier.
Filled with thousands of overlapping tones:
"Are u a believer of mord HERITH"
Laryoal's expression remained composed, though his fingers twitched slightly near his cloak.
He replied, softly:
"Indeed I am."
A brief silence followed.
Then—
"Then tell the oath of lord"
Laryoal said nothing.
Not a word.
His gaze lowered slightly.
A subtle shift in his stance—just one step back.
Inside the gate, the hooded figures began moving again.
But not in their previous pattern.
This time—they moved forward.
Step by step.
Each movement synchronized.
Each breath drawn deeply…
Then released—
A low, collective exhale echoed faintly.
Laryoal turned his head slightly toward the booth.
Silence stretched.
Then—
A sudden, violent shriek burst from within:
"U BLASPHEMER—"
Pain.
Instant.
Overwhelming.
Laryoal clutched his head tightly, dropping to his knees. His fingers dug into his scalp as if trying to stop something from tearing through his mind.
It felt like nails were being hammered into his skull—again and again, all at once.
Then—
He woke.
His eyes snapped open.
His body was drenched in sweat.
His breathing was uneven, sharp.
The pain still lingered… slowly fading.
Without wasting a second, he reached behind his head and pulled out a worn leather side bag—used as a pillow.
From it, he took out a thin black paper.
Then—a strange quill.
Its feathers were black and white, its tip dipped in deep blue ink.
Without hesitation, he began writing.
The symbols were unfamiliar to the world—
Yet flowed from him as if natural.
— TOWN OF HERITH? —
— STRANGE GATE, TIGHTLY CLOSED WOODEN BOOTH?? —
— STRANGE PHENOMENA WITH RESIDENTS?? —
— OATH OF LORD?? —
— HERITH??? —
He stopped.
His hand hovered for a moment.
Then he gathered a stack of similar papers—each filled with blue ink—and bound them together carefully, forming a crafted book.
He added the new page to it.
Closed it.
He rose.
Took his sword—fastening it at his right waist.
Hung the leather bag to his left.
Wore his dark cloak.
And stepped out of the den.
Sunlight filtered faintly through the dense canopy above.
He glanced at it briefly… then began walking.
After a long journey through raw wilderness, he finally reached a worn path—broad enough to suggest frequent use.
He followed it.
As he walked, his eyes moved constantly.
Observing.
Analyzing.
Creatures passed by—each absorbed in their own existence.
After a while, he muttered to himself, voice quiet and thoughtful:
"Difference is they follow instincts over consciousness."
A faint smirk touched his lips.
He continued walking.
Time passed.
No humans.
Then—
Two figures appeared ahead.
Not far.
His expression hardened instantly.
His posture straightened.
A serious, stern aura surrounded him.
He walked toward them.
As he got closer—
He saw clearly.
A woman.
Thin—almost skeletal.
She carried a large black vessel on her back, her body slightly bent under its weight.
Beside her—a young girl.
Also carrying a vessel.
Smaller—but too heavy for her age.
She struggled, mimicking the woman's posture to balance it.
Laryoal slowed.
Then—
His expression changed.
The sternness softened.
His shoulders relaxed.
His face took on the demeanor of a calm, decent young gentleman.
He approached them.
…
In the island city of Loira—
At the far edge of the city, where no houses stood, there existed a darkly blue colour emitting mansion.
Ancient.
Heavy with presence.
Inside—
In one of its rooms—
Around twenty men sat in rows on wooden chairs.
Each wore silver-splashed shoes.
Each carried an axe at their waist.
Each bore the same tattoo on their neck—
A crow, strangled by a thorn rope… in twisted ecstasy.
They all faced one man.
With respect.
With silence.
He sat calmly.
Curled hair.
A faint smile.
Eyes filled with quiet intent.
He was Alimer.
A man searching for crystals known as Auskles.
Suddenly—
A man stood.
His hair sharp, falling into his eyes.
An earring in his right ear—bearing the same crow emblem.
In his hand
An axe.
Fresh blood still dripping from its edge.
He stepped forward.
Bowed.
Spoke firmly:
"Master, we must head back now. King 'Gorian alfouz' won the battle in Agaony and now have one third of the land. We must not lose our air in the remaining land aganova"
Alimer chuckled softly.
A slow, amused smile spreading across his face.
He leaned back slightly.
Eyes narrowing.
"Indeed… we must welcome him…"
A pause.
His smile deepened.
"…for winning our own land without our approval…"
He tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest.
Then spoke:
"Hmm… ok. Call 'Magriex' at headquarters that we are coming back. And make some arrangements with that king before that."
Without waiting for a response, he raised his hand slightly.
The room understood.
One by one—the men stood and left.
Soon—
Only two remained.
Alimer.
And the man with the bloodied axe.
Silence filled the room.
End of chapter 4.
To be continued ~